


Lietpol Week: Silence

by postmanbutters



Series: Lietpol Week 2k18 [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Graphic Violence, Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, Some Fluff, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 22:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postmanbutters/pseuds/postmanbutters
Summary: Lithuania reminisces over all the times he’d made Poland quiet.





	Lietpol Week: Silence

**Author's Note:**

> i had the hardest time with this prompt!!! i rewrote this several times... i hope it’s ok..

To stun Poland into silence was not an easy feat. In fact, Lithuania could probably count on one hand how many times it had occurred, over many, many years together. Poland, perpetually in motion, perpetually in sound, hated the silence. He tapped his foot, he hummed, he sang in the shower. 

The first time, he remembered as if it were yesterday, and it gave him a prickling, awful feeling of guilt. Apologies had been exchanged, of course, but he could never forget the absolute shock- the betrayal on Poland’s face. They had been very young and newly married, Poland had been arguing with him, again, about his Catholicism, and said something unforgivable and cruel. Lithuania couldn’t remember the exact words, but they had made him lose his composure and he’d struck Poland hard across the cheek. 

His hand had flown to the stinging, red skin, and Lithuania was afraid he would yell, but he didn’t, which was worse. His mouth just dropped into a look of pained surprise, but no sound came out. His eyes welled with tears, silently, and he’d turned on his heel and ran. It’d taken two days to get Poland to speak to him again, with many apologies and many kisses against the bruised skin. He had never raised his hand to him, after that, even in war. He would rather fight Poland with a sword then ever lay a hand on him again. 

The second time, in better, peaceful times, he’d surprised Poland in the garden with a bouquet of flowers bigger than his head. He’d ran up and kissed him on the mouth, spun him around, and the sky was cloudless blue and the breeze was warm and perfect. Poland had gasped at the flowers and hugged them to his chest. Lithuania expected a thank you, but instead, Poland just stared at them, beaming, and kissed him again. And again. And again. And they’d rolled around in the grass like that until Ukraine had chased them out with a towel. 

The third time was the worst. Years, and years of silence. Poland had been ripped from him, and those years to follow were like static. Like a blank screen. Buzzing. They told him he was dead, and then, even in his dreams, Poland didn’t speak. 

The fourth time was good. They’d saw each other again, finally, that day. And Poland was different, but much the same, and Lithuania had all his boldness taken from him, but with Poland in his arms, he could remember more clearly. They’d been careful with each other, delicate in a way they never were before, not even their very first time so long ago, when Poland had been shaking with nerves. 

Lithuania kissed every inch of him, held him tight and gentle, and when he’d pressed inside, Poland’s eyes had gotten big and teary, and he’d gone completely quiet. Lithuania was afraid he’d hurt him, asked him if he wanted to stop, but Poland smiled and said no, and cried, “I just missed you so much!” and Lithuania was crying then, as well. 

The fifth time was when he’d refused Poland. He would not reunify, he was his own republic. The light in Poland’s eyes that had been so brilliant became completely dull. He didn’t yell, he didn’t cry, he’d just stared at Lithuania with resolve, eyebrows furrowed, and Lithuania could remember feeling afraid of him for the first time. 

Now, Poland was sleeping on his lap. They’d been watching trashy television, and Poland had gotten tired. It wasn’t silence, it was just a comfortable quiet. The soft sound of his breath could still be heard, slow and even. The television still buzzed, although Lithuania had turned the volume down. 

He was happy, they were safe, they were together- but separate, and it was comfortable like this. He let himself fall asleep with the TV on, for once not worrying about the electric bill. He liked the noise.


End file.
